


Unhooking the stars

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accordion, Accordionist, Christmas, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Music, Snow, Strangers, Street Musician Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:22:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I breathed you in and tried to exhale…</em>
</p><p>It feels like debauchery if it had a sound, his hips are swaying together with the accordion, people are clapping and wolf-whistling, some of them even start to dance. There’s a feast in the middle of the street, just outside the metro, people are throwing coins and swinging on the pavement, and it’s all <em>his</em> fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unhooking the stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarberryCupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarberryCupcake/gifts), [Screamingpoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Screamingpoet/gifts).



> Ok, so I know my work lately is crap and I can't even work on my other fic, but I had to write something for Christmas and, considering I've returned to my beloved accordion these days, this came to my mind. I also can't stop thinking of the wonderful concert of Molotov Jukebox who visited Greece last week, and Natalia Tena's amazing accordion music, it's one of the experiences I'll never forget. So, here it is. Not enough happens, there is no plot, but I hope you'll like it. Songs by Molotov Jukebox mentioned here you NEED to hear if you haven't already (be prepared for the involuntary dancing): Voodoo, The Soldieress's Lament.  
> The beautiful Frozen/Vivaldi mix is from the Piano Guys, you should definitely check it out because it's breathtaking.  
> I wish you the most amazing holidays, whatever you may celebrate, and days full of health and joy with your loved ones <3  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

If he was a poet, he’d say that the first time he saw him, the sky was like frozen pomegranates.

Enjolras is in no way a poet.

The orange and purple shades of the misty twilight are swirling dully until they grow blue with cold, and Enjolras shoves his already gloved hands deeper down the pockets of his red pea coat. There’s something sluggish in the atmosphere, it’s heavy in the thick wool Combeferre made sure he’d bundle up with, despite the coolness of the wind prickling against his rosy cheeks. It feels after waking up somewhat dazed after an evening slumber that leaves you searching for your destination in life.

He’s on his way home from his last class, having said goodbyes and ‘Happy Holidays’ instead of Merry Christmas and its implied religious supremacist  imperialism, and made no professors cry even after their problematic lukewarm position on the rights of minorities. The streets are filling with people finishing their sacrifices to the festive temple of capitalism, chattering and laughing vividly in groups. There are students celebrating their freedom – Enjolras doesn’t understand this since the holidays are the official essay feast – and couples warming their fingers around the last steamy papercups before coffee and chocolate time runs out. They’re walking quickly and Enjolras understands them: it’s freezing cold outside, and he can’t wait to be crammed up in the metro and then in their relatively warm apartment, central heating and all because yes they’re privileged thank you very much, nothing he’s proud of. Enjolras has an essay on Foucault due to the 27th, and he needs coffee.

He hears him before he sees him, assumedly like everybody does. He’s standing outside the bright red metro sign and his distorted siren notes hook people before descending the stairs and riding back home. There’s an abundance of sounds and for quite a while it’s impossible to believe that one man alone can produce them. It’s nothing you can blow into, as far as Enjolras is concerned, not guitar or violin or piano. It sounds a bit like that, only richer, and it makes his feet feel like flying even in those uncomfortable boots and the tacky reindeer socks Courfeyrac gave him.

Enjolras has heard an accordion before. In fact, it’s quite hard living in his city and not stumbling up on an accordionist at least once per day. It’s not that it’s different this time, it would be pretentious to say that. It’s just that it doesn’t sound like that screeching, off note thing that manages to make sense. It makes no sense in a way, yet at the same time it flows, it’s fierce like rain, crazy like explosions of sun burning through it.

He sees the small crowd consisting of people unusual for a street accordionist, students and tourists, young couples and fascinated older locals. He’s playing Let it Go from Frozen and Enjolras wants to groan, but then it turns to Vivaldi’s winter, while staying in the same scale, and it’s breathtaking and _alive,_ more than it would be on a thousand violins. His sight makes Enjolras’ breath hitch a bit. His whole body, is _breathing_ the music, looking too small in his giant ratty parka, it’s an organic orchestra of muscles and limbs curving and stretching aligned with the massive instrument, his gloveless fingers moving furiously over the black and white keys, his shoulders controlling the wide movements of the accordion, his darkened gaze and lopsided smile following the flow of the music. He doesn’t sing: everyone in the crowd does in a quite enthusiastic manner. He just flashes a strange, shadowed smile to every passerby who drops a coin on his beret, and encourages his small audience with gestures of his wrinkled eyes to show how the cold never bothered them anyway, when it really fucking did.

Enjolras doesn’t even realize he’s stopped on his tracks, not with his fingers and toes numb with cold, not even when the song changes with hysterical applause. Not until he meets his eyes, blue and breathless, and the city freezes over. The man’s cold, callused fingers caress the keys and his figure deflates, together with the instrument.

The stranger flashes him a mischievous, almost sarcastic smile, and something jolts inside Enjolras. It’s uncomfortable and he tries to understand if he’s annoyed or upset but he doesn’t have time to do so because the accordionist is singing.

_I breathed you in and tried to exhale…_

It feels like debauchery if it had a sound, his hips are swaying together with the accordion, people are clapping and wolf-whistling, some of them even start to dance. There’s a feast in the middle of the street, just outside the metro, people are throwing coins and swinging on the pavement, and it’s all _his_ fault.

_Your voodoo love is got me screaming from the rooftops –_

_please, baby, please don’t stop_

In a split fragment of a second, the music never stopping to bounce between the man’s fingers, he slowly raises one arm with his finger extended, pointing to Enjolras whose heart tries to plummet its way out of his chest.

 _It’s done,_ what. _you won,_ the fuck. _lay done my defenses_ something in his breath explodes.

_and come –_

Enjolras wraps his coat tightly around his body, turning around with inexplicable fury and walking down the metro, the moon already strolling ahead.

_To you._

The ice in his eyes still sends shivers down his spine.

*

The second time he sees him, the sky is white and glazed. It’s morning and it couldn’t be more of that. Everything’s awake and furious, people running up and down to buy their last Christmas presents and turkeys to stuff their asses up. The mood is supposed to be festive, with all the lights and the ribbons and the decorations in the shops, but it’s really nauseating. No one is as happy today, no one stops to listen to the music and, in all honesty, they all look quite tired from it. There are so many people that you can’t walk across the pavement without their elbows up your stomach, and Enjolras thinks he’s going to be sick before he finishes with all the presents.

It’s an almost violent change from the tacky carols that come through shop megaphones. It starts with the familiar melody of Feliz Navidad that he hears from a distance and brightens up as he approaches, but the accordionist sees him and starts singing a different song, a strange mixture of gypsy melodies with swing and jumpy jazz, with the same smug grin glowing on his dark, unshaven face. “Hey Apollo,” he says with a deep, hoarse voice, so different from his singing one, and it takes a while for Enjolras to realize it’s him he’s talking to. It’s not that hard, to say the truth. Everyone’s too busy for the lonely accordionist today, and he doesn’t seem to mind that at all. There’s something bitter in the way he winks to Enjolras that makes his insides clench uncomfortably. He can do nothing but stop, even when the bookshop in the corner is calling for him and he _needs_ to buy presents to his friends and family before he returns to finish his research on Hegel.

“Uh, me?” he frowns, pointing at himself. The stranger’s smile widens, but not enough to touch his frigid gaze.

“Yeah, you,” the man continues slowly, letting the accordion inflate rather dramatically in his spread arms. “ _What shall I doooo,_ ” he lets his voice trail huskily over the teasing chords. “ _With a man like youuuu,”_ he heaves gravely, the accordion weeping its way closed, “ _what’s a girl to doooo_!”

Just then, before Enjolras is even able to find what to say, the security guard of the mall the accordionist is standing before today comes and waves his hand dismissively. “Off you go, buddy. You’re blocking the entrance!”

“Of course, _amigo,_ ” the man grins sarcastically with a barely audible snort, wrapping a protective arm around his accordion and turning around rather dramatically. “Didn’t want to sass out your Christmas Bieber soundtrack!”

Before he can even control himself, Enjolras finds himself blurting out: “This is a public street! You can’t deprive a citizen from his right to profit the same way that you do, exploiting your power over the local market!”

The guard heaves a sigh and walks away, probably not really keen on meddling with yet another student activist today. Enjolras’ cheeks are burning when the guy gathers his accordion on his back and turns to smirk at him. “Thank you, my golden deliverer of justice,” he murmurs, picking the empty, today, cap from the pavement, “but I can save myself.”

“I didn’t _save_ you,” Enjolras protests, feeling his palms sweating up uncomfortably in his itchy gloves. “So no need to be a dick about it…”

“That’s what I do, Apollo,” the accordionist mutters, winking again in that horrible, self-conceited way, that wrinkles the skin around his blue eyes, before he turns on his heel to walk away in that chill, rhythmical way of his. “It’s all I do.”

When Enjolras swallows it down, he’s in dire need of a coffee.

*

The next time he sees him, he doesn’t even see him at first. _Or maybe he just doesn’t want to, because he can’t be all Enjolras has been thinking about, his fingers can’t tease his mind and his voice can’t vibrate over every string that’s tied inside his chest._

It’s dark apart from the dim lamplight that spreads its glow over the wet cobblestone. There’s an eerie peace about the completely deserted streets on Christmas Eve, and Enjolras faintly wonders if the composers of all those ancient carols had his hometown in mind when they got inspired.

Everyone’s in warm rooms, behind brightly lit windows, eating and dancing with family and friends. No one in their right mind would wander around this frozen, empty street right now, in a ridiculous three-piece suit and his hands desperately shoved for warmth in the darkest depths of his coat, where he finds breadcrumbs, a political pamphlet and a chocolate wrapping or two. Enjolras is walking alone and, provided that he won’t catch pneumonia, it’s really cathartic, the cold air cleaning his mind, walking amidst the bare trees with the colorful festive lights, nothing to be heard through the misty clouds of his breath but his boots on the pavement.

And an accordion.

The whimsical scales of Carol of the Bells wrap his spirit in chills and he stops dead on his feet in the middle of the street to hold his breath. His feet then take him to the source of the sound and his heart swells when he sees him. He’s wearing a Christmas jumper today, green with reindeers doing inappropriate things, as well as a Santa’s hat and – Enjolras swallows hard on dear life itself – sparkly red lipstick. His parks doesn’t look so huge today, compared to his chunky boots, but his fingers are still gloveless as they make love to the keyboard.

He walks slowly and stands before him, his eyes first falling on the cap on the pavement. It’s empty but for a couple of bronze coins. He feels the man’s eyes burning on him, his gaze illuminated by the blue lights that glow on the street. Neither speaks until the beautiful melody finishes, and the two or three people that pass by quickly, breathing frozen smoke and pulling their coats tightly around them, can’t help stopping for a few seconds, mesmerized at how mellow and spiritual a bloody _accordion_ can get.

He feels light when the song ends, everything heavy lifted up from his chest.

The man slowly raises his eyes, adjusting the Santa beanie over his head.

“You’ve never given shit to my beret, Apollo,” he hums, adjusting the weight of the accordion in his arms. “Isn’t that a bit rude and pretentious coming from a lover of the people?”

“Stop calling me that,” he grunts, annoyed and admittedly ashame, searching in his pockets for a few coins. “It doesn’t even fit!”

“You’re right,” he nods solemnly. “Give then setting, and the whole sexless chastity thing you’ve got going, complete with the golden halo, I should probably call you _Ange_.”

Enjolras’ pulse accelerates. “How did you know?” he asks, a bit hoarsely.

“Know what?”

Enjolras suddenly feels stupid. “Nothing,” he runs his hand down his face. “It’s just… my name’s pronounced Enjolras.”

The musician groans. “That’s a worse pun even than my name!”

“What’s your name?”

He lowers his eyes to his accordion, supporting the weight with a lift of his knee. “Grantaire,” he smirks crookedly, turning on the side to show him a calligraphic capital R engraved on the wooden body of his accordion. It’s Enjolras’ turn to groan. “Feuilly did it for me last year, you’d fall in love with the guy, he volunteers to all sorts of activist things, a hopeless optimist like you.”

Enjolras frowns but runs his fingers down the worn wood of the accordion carefully. “Aren’t you cold?” he eventually raises his eyes, feeling himself frozen to his very bones.

“Why?” Grantaire asks. “Aren’t you?” he raises a sarcastic eyebrow, gesturing at Enjolras’ pretentious suit. He feels his cheeks flushing uncomfortably. “Judging from your attire you must have run away from somewhere fancy. Let me guess,” he raises an eyebrow. “A humble family gathering with the occasional uncle who asks what are you doing with your life and your mother expecting the Heterosexual Bloom that’ll bring her a litter of grandchildren and a respectable position in society.”

Enjolras grimaces. “Actually it was mostly about my dead seeing me in the front row of the LGBTQIA+ demonstrations. The one I punched a cop.”

Grantaire whistles. “Of course,” he mutters, “a harsh world for revolutionaries, isn’t it?”

“Harsher for other people,” Enjolras replies coldly.

“Don’t tell me,” Grantaire’s eyes glow dangerously. He sits on a bench, resting the weight of his accordion on his lap. “Your hands look warm.”

Enjolras looks at his red woolen gloves, then back to the bench. He hesitates for a while, wiping it dry from the dewiness of the night before sitting down. “Bring yours here. You need your fingers for your work, and I can warm them up.”

“Not my work,” Grantaire exhales, “though I do need my fingers for other things too.”

He looks breathless, almost mesmerized, trying to swallow something that feels like an honour. His chapped lips are half parted as he finally gives in and offers Enjolras his hands, his blue eyes streaked with a glint of reverence. Enjolras’ eyes fall down at them. He can see it all in two sets of fingers, elegant yet callused, dry from the cold, almost bleeding on the knuckles. Enjolras wraps them in his hands, rubbing them gently with his heart on his throat. He can feel Grantaire’s eyes lowering and he can’t handle them either. It’s almost mystical an experience, holding his hands, even with the harsh wool separating their skin. He hates how he can’t identify it and he wants to swallow it down and bear it forever in the pit of his chest, to swell with music if he doesn’t touch him again.

_He can’t not touch him. He’ll die, a thousand times. Then eight._

“Play to me,” he exhales.

He plays So this is Christmas and the melody of Christmas Lights by Coldplay. Enjolras can’t feel his toes in his red Converse that added the revolutionary hint to the suit his mother would have otherwise approved of, but he’s entirely forgotten the cold. Everything that Enjolras has already heard sounds like a new thing with the accordion, and the snowflakes that start to fall take part in a frantic feast, dressed in blue gowns and gleaming precariously before they touch the ground. Enjolras’ heart sinks.

“Don’t you have anywhere to be?” he asks.

“Do I look like I have?” Grantaire snorts sarcastically.

He doesn’t dare to ask more. “Come with us tomorrow, to meet the others,” he murmurs breathlessly. “At the shelter.”

“What shelter?” Grantaire asks, looking quite taken aback.

“Well, we have a tradition of volunteering at the local shelter… You know, at the party they host for the homeless. You can look the information up, we need people who can cook or do other things, all the information are on our site.”

“Yeah, I know, Feuilly goes too.” There is silence. Grantaire laces his accordion closed. “So it's you who organize these shit. Maybe you’re not as self-conceited as I thought you were, Apollo.”

“Thanks, that was real smooth,” Enjolras says blankly, though there’s no venom in the musician’s voice. “Glad you say what you think.”

“I’ve got to go, _Ange,_ ” he says in a softened voice, picking up the cap with the coins from the pavement, damp with snow and teasing them between his rough fingers for a second. Snow swirls softly around them and the whole world is a snowball, and they’re upside down. Grantaire’s eyes are blue and full of light, his lips chapped and half parted. For a moment there, he looks as if he’s about to say something. Snowflakes melt on his nose and lips, frolicking in white between his beard. They’re so close that he can feel the cold flakes of his breath brushing upon his skin. “Tomorrow at the shelter,” he croaks eventually, “can I bring my accordion?”

The smile that spreads on Enjolras’ face tastes like snow, and it’s already melting him down. He takes off his gloves and hands them to a startled Grantaire, trailing his bare fingers down the keys of the instrument. “You'll have to bring those too,” he breathes.

The musician turns around in the mist and walks away, the plastic case of his gigantic accordion bouncing on his back with the rhythm that their breath still sews the constellations on the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this for Christmas to my two most amazing friends, Screamingpoet and StarberryCupcake whom I adore, and I haven't talked to enough lately because we had problems with our internet connection and life has been crazy. I love you both sooooo much, and I'll never forget how important you both were in my life this year <3


End file.
